


Colder Than the Moon

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Hux's life is right on track. She's building the greatest superweapon the galaxy has ever seen, and she's about to marry her Academy sweetheart who's now a decorated war hero. There's no room for anything but stunning success or a catastrophic burnout. But the vagaries of fate--and Kylo Ren--have other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Message From General Landa; A Comforting Talk With Kylo Ren

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt:  
>  _"Kylo hates Hux. But when he finds out that the general is betrothed he becomes insanely jealous (up to entertaining rape fantasies where he punishes her for betraying him, even if they never were together). At least he hopes it's political arranged marriage. But when Hux's fiance comes to visit, Kylo walks into their room and discovers them fucking. In a murdeous rage he gruesomely kills poor OC (bonus if he was actually a relatively nice guy by the First Order standarts)._
> 
>  
> 
> _Hux in her turn, hates Kylo's guts but when he stands there covered in her betrothed's gore, she suddenly finds him irresistibly attractive (no Force tricks) and they fuck right in front of the corpse. The more messed up they are, the better._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Both want sex, but it's unclear if either one would allow the other to say no."_  
>  at: https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/2821.html?thread=5244421#cmt5244421

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Act I: The Prettiest Star**

It all starts when Hux gets a message from the Department of Infotainment on her com unit pad. The message is just a news clip from General Landa doing one of his "Profiles in Bravery" series, the kind that are played over screens in the Stormtroopers' mess hall during busy lunch hours. Hux stirs her cup of caf, yawning a little and skimming through the clip to see whether there's anything pertinent to her. 

"Today, we honor Colonel Rog Zoller." _Oh_. Hux's hand goes to her heart. 

Landa's cheerful face fades out, his voice speaker over a still photo of Rog. He's young, square-jawed, his honey-brown hair slicked back over eyes that gaze into the distance. "Colonel Zoller's TIE fighter was shot down during a skirmish with those nasty Resistance dogs over a populated asteroid. Armed with only a half-charged blaster and a single incendiary device, he managed to shoot down six Resistance planes, take two of their running dogs alive, and secure the resources of the asteroid--not to mention the loyalty of all inhabitants! Congratulations, Colonel Rog Zoller. You are truly a hero of the First Order." 

_Oh, good._ Hux lets out a breath and takes a sip of her caf. Landa would have mentioned it if he'd died, made the piece a somber one. She closes out the video and puts her com pad down before it starts beeping again. This time it's Landa in the flesh. 

"Miss Hux, so glad I caught you. How did you enjoy the video?" 

Hux favors Landa with a faint smile. Normally she'd be sterner with anyone referring to her as "Miss," but Landa's job is to be chatty and approachable, a sort of kindly grandfather from the Empire lending his reputation to the First Order. "Very good, sir. I'm inspired by Zoller's bravery, and I'm sure the Troopers will be as well." 

"It was for your eyes especially, my dear. I understand that you go a long ways back with Colonel Zoller." 

Hux winces internally. "We were close in the Academy, but we haven't seen each other since I attained the rank of General." 

"Tsk. Such a shame." 

"It was by mutual agreement," Hux assures him. 

"Well, our man Zoller is very eager to become reacquainted with his old friend now that he is a Hero of the Order. In fact, he's requested that you present him with his medal." 

_Maker, no._ "General, I can't possibly take the time off from supervising Project Starkiller for something like that. I appreciate the offer, but--" 

"It was not an offer, Miss Hux." Landa leans back in his hair, steepling his fingers over his chest. "Don't worry about the time it will take--the ceremony will take place in the _Finalizer_. We're transporting Zoller and some very high officials out to you. You'll even be able to give them a tour of your progress on the Starkiller, so it's perfect." He beams at her, showing all of his teeth. "So you see, there is nothing to worry about." 

"Understood, General. I'm honored." 

"Then I will let you get back to your morning cup." Landa signs off. 

Hux gulps her caf and thinks about following it up with a Perkium tablet. 

* 

The morning is frustratingly uneventful. Hux heads onto the bridge eager for a fight, some kind of game to play or a problem to solve. Perhaps a Resistance pilot will try to snoop around Starkiller again and she'll get to vaporize a ship, or there will be a catastrophic system failure and she'll get to sit down with someone clever from Engineering and decide where to reroute power. Unfortunately, there's not so much as a cave-in on the surface of Starkiller, so she leaves Mitaka in temporary charge of the bridge and starts to plot out a tour route for the officials. 

The observation deck on the Finalizer is a bit of a luxury on a military ship, but Hux likes looking at problems from above. She sits down, datapad in hand, and takes a moment to admire the sheer scope of Starkiller. It's beautifully framed in the transparisteel of the window, white and luminous with snow. Nearly everyone had scoffed at her proposal for the superweapon. Another Death Star, but _bigger_ \--certainly not what people had expected from the brilliant young General Hux for her first commission. Nobody had looked beyond the sheer scope of the thing to consider what a weapon that ate the dark soul of a sun and ripped time-space to deliver its killing blow might suggest in terms of sheer cosmic possibility. 

"I sensed your agitation in the Force, General. Let us speak freely." 

Hux's shoulders go up around her ears as the harsh, vocoded words reach her. Kylo Ren's eerie brooding is rarely the kind of problem she enjoys solving. "I'm merely annoyed. We're hosting a ceremony soon, unfortunately. I need to work out some logistics. It will be formal wear, by the way." She eyes the Knight of Ren. His ragged cape and rough robe are unlikely to impress any of the top brass of the old Empire. Too bad the dented, rough helmet can't be helped. "You might have that helmet mended, if you must keep it on," she adds. 

"It is as much a part of my uniform as your braids to you," Ren says. Hux can feel an eerie sensation at the back of her neck, as though phantom hands were touching her neatly coiled braids. She can hear Ren's footsteps as he gets nearer to her. 

"My concern is for your vision, Lord Ren. Can you even see out of the sides?" 

"Vision is a distraction in battle. The Force shows me my enemies." 

Hux gestures to the wraparound viewscreens, the field of space in all directions. "You're not in battle. Feel free to remove your helmet." 

Ren's hand lands on her shoulder. "You are trying to antagonize me, General. I think it's best you desist before further hostilities...occur." 

"On one condition." 

"Name your terms." 

Hux mimes lifting off a helmet. 

Ren's answering huff is translated through the vocoder as a low growl. "That would be surrender." 

"I think it's reasonable. I do have the ability to transfer the object of my attention to anything else about your person, where your only weapon is whatever you consider _hostility_ to be." Hux fingerquotes the word _hostility_. "I have many choices--you have one. I have the upper hand." 

"Many choices does not guarantee success. I could destroy you at any time." 

Hux sighs. "You're not a dejarik player, are you?" 

"On the contrary. I learned to play dejarik very early in life. The most valuable lesson I took from the game was that you cannot win at dejarik if you suddenly find yourself with broken fingers." 

"That is...technically correct." 

"I find it to be the most interesting kind of correct." Ren stands in what Hux hopes is awkward silence. "Why do you want me to remove my helmet?" 

Hux sneaks a glance at Ren's hands. They're covered in thick gloves, as usual. She wonders what she'd find if he took off them off. Bent fingers, or scars? "You have the advantage whenever we talk. You can see my face; I can't see yours." 

"On the contrary, General. Surely you've adapted to compensate for the loss of information by now. But I still cannot--" 

Ren stops, and then lifts his hands to his face. Hux hears the hiss of his helmet opening. She refuses to look away as he lifts it off, as dark clouds of unruly hair fall around the Knight's shoulders. He shakes out his locks like a restive dog. "Well?" he asks. 

Hux studies his face. Perhaps it's the odd, arched eyebrows or the way his faint moustache follows his mouth down at the corners, but he seems quite sullen. "Were you expecting me to scream, 'Behold the monster'?" 

Ren's shoulders slump just slightly, and he takes a seat next to her. "Are you satisfied?" 

"Never in this life. But I will hold to my agreement; no more antagonism for the day." 

"Just the day?" 

"We'll renegotiate tomorrow." 

Ren shifts his position on the bench, placing his hands in his lap. "That's...acceptable." 

It's easier not to look at each other. Hux searches the sky, debating the necessity of thinking up a topic of conversation. Silence is tactically desirable for a number of reasons. It gives nothing away; it drives your opponent to speak; it makes people feel very awkward, which is the most reliable way to get them to want to placate you. Hux vaguely feels that this is the kind of social situation in which she's expected to say something first, however. Anyway, who knows what kind of awful drivel might come out of Ren's mouth if she doesn't say something? 

She points to a cluster of bright spots in the center of the viewscreen, all barely distinguishable from each other. "Do you see that planet cluster?" 

Ren squints. "No. Which one?" 

"Dead center." She frames the stars with her fingers and brings her head close in to Ren's, adjusting her hands to keep the cluster in her visual field. "See it now?" 

Ren turns his head towards her. She can feel his warm breath on her jaw, his hair brushing her cheek. She can feel his dark brown eyes on hers and she flicks her pale green eyes away. "I still can't see anything," he whispers. 

"It would be easier if you turned your eyes towards the viewscreen, Ren." 

"Of course." He retreats a few inches, leaving cool air next to her skin. "I see them now." 

"That's the Hosnian system," she says. "Five planets orbiting in perfect symmetry around a yellow star." 

Ren clears his throat. "They're beautiful. Is that where you're from?" 

"No," Hux says. "I've never been. But in a few months, I'm going to blow them all up." She envisions the brilliant explosion, its scorching light reaching to all corners of the universe. Every sentient eye in the galaxy will turn to the sky, and every sentient being in the galaxy will fear the work of her hands. Hux can't help letting a smile spread across her face. She almost feels the warmth spread outside of her body, like a supernova. 

"Speaking freely helped. I feel much better." She pats Ren's hand and leaves.


	2. Kylo Ren Wears Phasma's Cape And Looks Fancy

Hux has been waiting on the flight deck for nearly an hour when the ships are sighted, and when Kylo Ren shows up. At least, something with Ren's helmet and approximate build shows up. Hux has never seen him in pants before. Especially not pants that are so _tight_. He's managed to dig out an ostentatious jacket with two rows of buttons and entirely too much gold braid for good taste, let alone uniform regulations, and the whole thing is topped off by a red-bordered cape that Hux immediately recognizes as Phasma's. 

She leans over and whispers, "You're wearing it wrong." 

Ren's mask turns to face her. It's easier than she expected to imagine the face underneath it, the dark eyes and the slight pout. "Formal wear, General. As you requested." 

"The cape." Hux sighs. "Never mind." She raises her voice, calling to the flight deck crew. "Don't lower the shields until they're here--we don't need Resistance ships slipping under our radar today." 

"I am not wearing the cape wrong," Ren says. "It is one of the simplest garments in the galaxy." 

"Fine." Hux shrugs, scanning a critical eye over the decor. She'd given up and put Mitaka in charge of the majority of the ceremony logistics, which had been a good choice. The flight deck really was the perfect place to show off the impressive size of the Finalizer, and orienting the ship so Starkiller Base loomed in the opening made it even more impressive. Even the bits of gold ornamentation stuck to the edges of the red First Order banners looked better than she'd thought, and the frippery was certain to please the old Empire officers who'd be attending. 

Ren's borrowed cape flaps in her peripheral vision. He's tugging it over his left shoulder. Hux smiles to herself, and catches sight of a decidedly cape-less Phasma leading a phalanx of Stormtroopers into the flight deck. 

Hux greets aged man after aged man, a parade of white hair and floating chairs. It's barely a surprise; most of the top brass who were left alive when the Empire fell are doddering by now, remnants of the past kept alive by deeds they barely remember. Even the young and hungry ones of their time are past their prime, mired in outmoded thinking and obsolete strategies. No wonder barely any of them are in command, free to traipse across the galaxy to attend an hour-long ceremony. 

They all fall away when she sees Rog. Landa is on one side, delicately supporting Rog's scaffolded left arm. Rog's blue eyes are as distant as they were in the picture, and for a moment Hux's stomach sinks. But then he sees her, and those familiar eyes light up. 

"Boudi! Stars, but it's good to see you." Rog reaches out to her in what might be an embrace, or some kind of beseechment. The slim cut of his uniform only enhances his broad shoulders, the taper of his hips. Hux has fond memories of the vee of those hips. She tries not to blush, focusing on his face instead. His jaw is sharper than in his photograph, the well-defined cheekbones hopefully a result of maturity rather than privation. 

"Colonel Zoller." Hux places one arm behind her back and salutes, then shakes Rog's hand. "I'm glad to see you're well enough to join us on the Finalizer." 

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything." There's a hint of disappointment in Rog's eyes, but he lets her hand go. "It's just my arm, now. But the other one's fine." 

"I'm glad to hear it, Rog." Hux sneaks a glance at his biceps, but it's hard to tell what he's packing under his smart pilot's jacket. There were long nights when the feeling of those warm, solid arms around her was the only thing that could quiet down her mind, calm the racing thoughts and plans long enough for her to get a few hours of sleep. Would she still fit into his arms so easily? If she put an ear to his chest, would she remember the sound of his heartbeat? 

* 

"...spaceships fail. Planets die. Whole races go extinct. But names live on. In a thousand years, the children of the First Order will remember the name of Rog Zoller," Landa concludes, and immediately breaks the solemn tone of the ceremony by giving himself a round of applause. It's echoed by the officers in the front. 

Hux scans the crowd. Kylo Ren is looming to the side as usual, hidden under the shadows of a TIE fighter in its charging bay. As soon as her eyes hit him, he reaches up and takes off his helmet. She can almost hear the hydraulic hiss, can almost see the light from the flight deck reflected in his brown eyes. 

She's written a speech. It's a good one, too. She'd stayed up late at night tweaking, revising, rehearsing. Imagining herself looking each old general and admiral in the eye, praising the youth and vitality of the First Order, the need for the galaxy to be renewed, cleansed. And now she can't remember the first line, and she can barely remember Rog's rank. Lieutenant? Cavalier? Knight? 

"Colonel," she says finally, and turns to Rog. "Colonel Rog Zoller. For your sacrifice--" 

She bites her lip. Rog's blue eyes are wide, his brow creasing into concern. Rog's not dead, she thinks, this isn't a funeral. 

"We all sacrifice in the name of the First Order," she says. "Some of us more than others. A man who dies in his duty cannot live again to serve the Order. I tell my troops that they have two missions--first, to succeed. Second, to survive." Hux has never said this to anyone in her life, but she's heard Phasma bellow it at her cadets during self-defense lessons. "Today, we celebrate not only Rog Zoller's bravery, but his safe return." 

Hux drops the medal around Rog's neck. Her hands brush his shoulders, and she quickly steps back and gives him a salute, fist up in the air. "Colonel Rog Zoller, we salute you as a Hero of the Order." 

Hux's eyes are on Rog as the officers stand to salute him, and the Stormtroopers follow suit. Rog's eyes are gleaming with sincere tears. He bites his lip and raises his fist in triumph. The gray-haired officers beam, wipe away tears, thump themselves on the chest. Hux suddenly has a vivid daydream in which she nods to Phasma, discreetly and just once, and Phasma cocks her gun and that's the signal for all of the tens of thousands of Stormtroopers in the audience to surround the officers and open fire. The daydream ends with her pushing Rog down onto the charred, ashy floor and ripping his pants off with her bare hands. 

There's a creeping feeling in the back of her mind, a little voice whispering to her that sounds just like her, or maybe like Snoke, or maybe like Kylo Ren. If she did nod at Phasma, just once, the way she imagines--perhaps Phasma would cock her gun. She'd open fire. The other Stormtroopers would follow suit. Of course she could do it. 

Hux keeps her head very, very still. 

* 

Hux knows what receptions are for. They're for the kind of bluff jokes and deal-making her father excelled at, the subtle flirting and pointed gossip her mother so favored. Their glittering parties in ballrooms and sumptuous houses were nothing like this little gathering in the officer's lounge of the Finalizer in scope or grandeur; it should be easier than it ever was for her parents for Hux to sweet-talk the admirals and generals, to make connections, to make allies. 

Yet she's still hanging back, watching the white-haired scions of the Empire fill their cups with cheap, sickly Garwillian champagne from outside the doorway. Only a few of her officers have been given leave to attend; Mitaka raises a glass of bubbly with a grateful smile. 

"General?" 

Hux almost doesn't recognize the blonde woman speaking to her. She's only seen Phasma without her helmet and armor a handful of times, and certainly never with rosy cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes. She cuts an intimidating figure in her trim charcoal grey uniform. "Captain. I see you have your war paint on." 

"No. War paint would be like this, and this." Phasma makes slashing gestures along her cheekbones and temples. "This is just blusher." 

"Ah, forgive my ignorance. It's just what my mother used to call her own makeup. War paint." 

"Interesting." Phasma's grey eyes flick back and forth across the crowd. She's wearing soft pink lipstick, but the set of her mouth is as severe as ever. She leans down and puts her mouth to Hux's ear, pitching her voice low. "Should I be expecting hostilities?" 

"Not the blaster kind." Hux sighs and pats her braided bun into place, rolls her shoulders and squares her chest. "Let's get this over with." 

She's barely into the doorway before she feels a cold, metal hand on her shoulder and a cry of "Well, if it isn't Boudika Hux!" 

"Admiral Anson!" Hux reflexively brings her heels together. 

"At ease, Cadet." Anson's pencil moustache has greyed, but his arched eyebrows still give him the skeptical look Hux remembers from the Academy. "Last time I saw little Boudi, she was just about this high." Anson's gleaming gunmetal hand hovers somewhere around his hip as he nods at Landa, who's appeared next to Anton with a clear greenish cocktail in his hand. 

She sneaks a look at Anson's hand. He'd never bothered to hide his prosthetic like the other instructors had, claiming that his cybernetics were a privilege and an improvement. "My right arm will outlast your great-great-grandchildren," he'd tell anyone who snickered at his utilitarian gunmetal arm. "Son, this arm can hold an egg without cracking it or crack your skull right in half. It's got a taser, a bayonet, a Philips head screwdriver, three blaster charges, and one application I cannot inform minors about. If you break off a finger, I can stroll on over to the PX and have it repaired without crackin' a frown." This was inevitably followed by a demonstration of just how fragile and inadequate a human hand was. 

"I believe I was about this height the last time I saw you, _sir_ ," Hux says. "Graduation day at the Academy." 

"No. That was the last time I saw _Cadet_ Hux. I hear you're a general now, little girl. Running this big old ship all by yourself?" Anson winks at her. 

Hux cocks her chin up. "Not all by myself, sir. I have Lieutenant Mitaka for the odd moments when I blink." 

"Your father would be proud," Anson says. 

"Very proud," Landa adds. "I do believe that our Miss Hux is well on her way to becoming the officer her father was." 

_I will surpass my father,_ Hux thinks, _I will grow so large that his name is blotted out in shadow._ Outwardly she says, "I certainly hope to live up to his legacy someday."


	3. The Dear Zon Letter

"Gentlemen." Rog's clear, baritone voice sounds over the creaking and squawking of the old officers' babble. "I'd love to hear some more stories about the old Empire later, but there's someone I've got to say hello to." 

A sea of charcoal bodies part, and Rog is there in front of her. He touches the medal, still slung around his neck. "Say, I never thanked you for the jewelry." 

"Don't thank me." Hux glances over to see if any of the old officers are still watching Rog, but they seem to have turned back to their gossip. "The decision was made by committee." 

"I know. I mean...thank you. For agreeing to do this." A shy smile flits over Rog's face. "I was worried you'd say no." 

"I couldn't--" Hux catches a glimpse of Landa, just within earshot. "Couldn't possibly say no. Not when you've done so much for the Order." 

"Sure," Rog says. "I guess it's all about the Order." 

"Of course it is." Hux's palms are becoming uncomfortably sweaty. It must be far too warm in here, all the old men milling around. "You're a hero, Rog. Congratulations on serving the Order. Well done." 

"Is that all you have to say to me? Congratulations?" Rog's eyebrows crinkle, and he looks profoundly sad. It's his 'stop studying and cuddle me, Boudi,' face. Hux had usually snuck her datapad into bed, reviewing her texts with Rog's arm around her shoulder. His snoring had been the perfect irritant to keep her awake. 

"Do you still snore?" she blurts out. 

Rog raises an eyebrow. "Wouldn't know. Haven't had anyone to tell me." 

"I'm sorry," she says, even though she's not sorry and she's not even sure if she believes him. Knowing people, he's kicked the girls out of his bed before they get a chance to hear him snore. Knowing Rog, the only people who have shared his sleeping quarters at all are his squadronmates, separated by layers of coarse and dirty gabercloth. 

Rog shrugs. "It's my choice," he says. "Don't feel bad for me. I'm doing what I always wanted to do." 

"Flying." Hux flashes him a smile, as brief and bright as a lightning bolt. "I won't feel bad for you, then." 

"Boudi, I want to talk to you. I mean, really talk. Alone." Rog puts a hand on Hux's shoulder. "Can we? For just a minute?" 

Hux surreptitiously dries her hands on the cloth of her uniform pants. Through the cloth, she loosens her blaster in its holster. Just in case. "Certainly." 

Rog steers her towards the door. Hux glances back over her shoulder, checking to see how many people are watching them leave. And who. She thinks she sees Phasma's blue eyes on her, or they might be on Officer Unamo. 

They stop just outside the door, clear in the middle of the corridor. Hux relaxes, just a little. "What did you want to talk about?" 

Rog's baby blues search her green eyes. She blinks slowly, letting him examine her. It's the way she stood before Kylo Ren the first time they were introduced. Showing with her eyes, with her stance, that she had nothing to hide and nothing to fear. 

"Why'd you throw me over?" 

The question sparks cold panic in her heart. "You know why, Rog." 

"No. I don't. I never did. And I've been waiting ten years to ask you." 

"You could have sent me an e-mail." 

"Like you did?" Rog's eyes are starting to glisten. Hux feels embarrassed for him, then admonishes herself for feeling embarrassed. "Not even a holo message--at least with a holo, I could have seen your face. Just a Dear Zon letter." 

"I thought it was the best way." 

"Why?" Rog's attention is crushing, piercing. "Boudi, I thought we meant something to each other." 

Hux remembers sending the e-mail, awake in the middle of what should have been her sleep cycle, the only light the blue glow from the screen of her commpad. She'd tapped out three drafts of the letter in the past week. The first one had been a long and elegaic speech, and had never gotten around to the actual breakup. The second had been a kind of reverse psychology, listing her own faults as a girlfriend (she'd had to make up some), suggesting Rog find someone worthier. She'd scrapped that one as being potentially worrying. The third one was perfect, and she'd mashed her thumb on the SEND button before she could change her mind. 

_Rog,_

_It's clear that our careers are taking us in different directions. Therefore, I think it's best that we no longer see each other. I wish you all the best in your endeavors to serve the First Order._

_Sincerely,  
Boudika Hux_

She'd debated adding her title, but had opted for the warmth of informality. The letter was perfectly inoffensive and polite. She'd hoped Rog had understood, and the immediate cessation of holo-messages from him had encouraged her hope. 

It hadn't been without a qualm. She'd missed the sound of his seven-string hallikset, the snatches of songs he'd play for her over the holovid. She'd missed the soporific sound of his breathing, the indolent feeling of lying in his arms before classes. But wasn't that languid, wretched feeling why she'd written that letter? The way her thoughts dawdled around him, the way soft light stabbed her heart and turned her stomach when he smiled at her. 

"It was all in the letter, Rog. We were going in different directions. You wanted to fly, I wanted to lead. It wouldn't have worked out." 

"I would have followed you. You know I would have." 

"It would have been unfair to ask you to make that choice." Hux's hands are shaking. She folds them behind her back. "I wouldn't have wanted you to do that to me." 

"Boudi, if you'd asked me to make that choice for you, I would have been glad to say yes." 

Hux takes a deep breath and wills her voice steady, looks into Rog's eyes and wills herself not to look away. She's faced down murderous smugglers and screaming drill sergeants, even shown her face to Supreme Leader Snoke, and yet it's taking all of her strength not to stare at her boots as though she were a child being admonished by her father for crying. "And if you'd asked me, I wouldn't have made that choice. And you deserve better than that." 

Rog doesn't understand. She knows it in her heart, in the way his eyes flicker over her face, in the set of his mouth. He doesn't see why he shouldn't throw everything away for a woman who wouldn't throw everything away for him. _A selfish girl, a girl who doesn't appreciate or deserve a nice man like Rog. What kind of girl is that?_ Hux doesn't know who the voice is in her head when she thinks about herself like this. It's not her father's stentorian tones, it's not her mother's mannered voice. It's something harsh, shrill, cruel. 

"None of that's going to matter soon," Rog says. "After a stunt like this, General Landa says I can have my pick of assignments." He grins at her, hopeful and crooked and beautiful. "I could even be assigned to the Finalizer. That is," he adds, "if you think you could use a Hero of the First Order on board." 

He reaches out to Hux, fingers grasping, pleading. "What do you say, General?" 

Hux stares at Rog's hand. She reaches out in return, almost unthinking. Something with Rog could be so easy, so comfortable. "Rog, I--" 

"General." A black, leather-clad hand comes between them, catching Hux's hand. 

Kylo Ren bows low at the waist and brushes his lips over the back of Hux's hand, eyes cast down low. His lips are surprisingly soft, and the sensation stays on Hux's skin even after Ren has straightened up. "Colonel Zoller," he adds, acknowledging Rog with a brief, curt nod. 

"Huh," Rog says. He looks Ren up and down, lips pressed in a thin line. "Where'd you get the fancy manners, friend?" 

"My mother was a deposed princess. She did manage to teach me a few things," Ren says. 

"A princess. My, my," Hux says. "That makes you a prince, doesn't it?" She silently gives sincere and thorough thanks for Ren's unerring penchant for the dramatic moment. 

"If she hadn't married one of the most feared pirates in the galaxy and given up her throne, yes," Ren agrees. 

"Now, why would a princess do that?" Hux gives Rog a sidelong smile. _Isn't this droll? Aren't you glad I'm winding him up instead of breaking your heart again?_

But Ren's eyes are fixed on her, curiously intense and dark even without the shadows of his hood. "There are so many who will give up so much in the name of love. Don't you find it strange, General?" 

"I try not to ponder it too much," Hux says, at the same time Rog slings his good arm over her shoulder. 

"Excuse me, Mister Ren," Rog says. "But my old Academy friend and I were having a private conversation. Think you could give us a little breathing room?" 

Hux holds her breath, just a little, as Ren glares at Rog. 

"Certainly," Ren says finally, and sweeps past them with a flowing flick of Phasma's cape. "Enjoy your conversation, General Hux." 

The door slides open and then shut. Hux is once again left alone with Rog in a silent corridor, the warmth and weight of his good arm something real and solid in the middle of an airless, hostile void. She gives in, relaxing against his chest, her body remembering the way she used to fit against his side. 

"Charming guy," Rog says. 

"A complex fellow." Hux leans her head against Rog's shoulder. Ren has always been complicated and hard to read, his strange moods and whims impossible to predict. Rog has always been as predictable as the slow turning of the galaxy, happy when he's got his arms wrapped around her and wistful when he doesn't. "Let me think about it, Rog." 

"What's to think about? You get a real live hero on your roster, and I get my girl back." Rog squeezes her shoulders. "We don't have a whole Galactic disc separating us anymore." 

"It's not that simple, I'm afraid." 

"Sure it is. You're a general. You call the shots. You want me, I'm here." 

"I'm sure this isn't your last stop. Landa probably has a whole tour planned out--" 

"Landa can--well, he can go piss out of an airlock, for all I care." Rog presses a soft kiss to Hux's temple. It's warm, chaste, comforting as a mug of steamed bantha milk. "He wants me to be in his holovids. I'm not a holo star, Hux. I'm a pilot. And I may not be the best in the galaxy, but I'm damn good at it, and I want to fly for you." 

"You want me to send you to your death," Hux says. She twists out from under Rog's arm, a little too fast, a little too shaky. "That's what happens to pilots, Rog. They die." 

"I know, Boudi. I've seen men go down in flames before." Rog rubs his injured arm, the motion seeming almost unconscious. "That asteroid wasn't the first time I thought I was going to die. It won't be the last." 

"I can't, Rog. I can't be the one to send you on the mission that will kill you. It's too much to ask of me." Hux presses her heels to the durasteel floor. It's not a very sincere out, but it is an out. "I know you wouldn't be able to do the same in my place." 

"Send the person I love to die for the Order?" Rog's eyes gleam, or perhaps it's her imagination. 

Hux wants to slap herself. It's the perfect, perfect trap. Heads, she doesn't love Rog, but he'll be draped all over the Finalizer. Never demanding, never brusque, but she'll feel those sad eyes and open arms everywhere she goes. It will be too easy to give in. Tails, she loves Rog, and she has to admit it. 

"Rog," she says. "Don't make me make that choice." 

"C'mon, Boudi." Rog's smile is crooked. "They wouldn't have made you a general if you weren't good at making the tough choices." 

"I can't do it. I'm sorry, Rog." She turns on her heel towards the door to the Officer's Lounge. Perhaps she can maneuver Phasma and Admiral Anson into a conversation; she'd rather like to see the old salt try to flirt with her fearsome corps commandant. 

"I'm going to die either way, Boudi," Rog says. "Pilots don't get old. Let me do it for you. Let me be near you before it happens. That's all I ask." 

Hux blinks rapidly. It's unfair of Rog to use that tone, that pleading and desperate tone. It's unfair for her eyes to prickle and water like this. She doesn't answer Rog before she steps through the door.


	4. Obligatory Showy Proposal

The reception drags on and puts Hux on edge. A glass of champagne turns into another, and something sweet and caustic from Admiral Anson's silver flask to take the edge off ("you're clenching your jaw, Cadet. This'll help. Don't worry, it's healthy, made from fruit--") . Hux doesn't drink much as a rule, and she's aware of the intricate calculus of these functions--how much to drink to make them remotely bearable, how far to abstain to keep a clear head. Whether a clear head is, at this point, desirable at all. 

She does calculate that it's ceased to be a reception and turned into a party when Anson decides to lead his Imperial comrades in a rousing chorus of "The Green Hills of Urth." Mitaka is showing people the holos of his shore leave on Ghibli Prime five years ago, Phasma's makeup is running and she's backed Officer Unamo into a corner, and Ren is skulking around the perimeters of the room like a misfiring security droid. 

Rog has been leaving her alone to brood over his offer, at least. He's been at Landa's side from the moment he stepped back into the officer's lounge, and every time she catches a glimpse of him he's got a new drink in his hand and a new audience for his tale of bravery. It's fine, she thinks. Rog deserves his moment to shine. Maker knows she'll have hers soon enough. _And I will shine so bright I will eclipse everything else in the sky._

"Let's have a speech!" Landa raises his champagne glass. "From the man of the hour," he adds, smirking a little. "Speech! Speech! Speech!" The cheer spreads to the other officers, and soon the room is a clamor of demands for Rog to speak, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and the rattling of ice cubes. Hux is far from the center of the action, but she can see Anson and Mitaka helping Rog climb up onto the of the tables. 

"For kriff's sake, this isn't a mess hall, Rog," Hux mutters to herself. 

"Another speech? I would have thought a man of action like your Zoller has had enough of those for one day." 

"He's not 'my' Zoller," Hux says, without turning. "And he deserves to have a moment to speak. Maker knows everyone else did." 

"Yours was shorter than usual," Ren says. 

"I'm flattered you paid attention." 

Across the room, Rog rises from a crouch. "Gosh, this table is kinda wobbly." Everyone laughs. "But that's all right. If I can stay in my TIE fighter when it's spiraling down to the surface of Gamaar, I can stand on a table for a few minutes to say my piece." The room quiets down. 

"I've devoted my life to serving the First Order," Rog says. "Every fight I've ever been in has been for the good of the Order, to defend the men and women who are working to--to secure the existence of our people and a future for human children, isn't that how we say it, Landa?" Landa nods, and Rog goes on. "And we've been winning a little at a time. We've been securing planets on the Outer Rim, and we're moving towards the Core. We're taking out the Resistance piece by piece. 

"I always thought I'd die for the Order. I still know I will. But when I was lying there in the wreckage of my TIE fighter with a bomb in one hand and a blaster in the other, I realized that I wasn't ready to die yet." Rog stops to wipe away a single tear. "I thought about what I wanted for my children, and my childrens' children. How I didn't want them to fight for the scraps that the Empire left us. I wanted them to hold the galaxy in their hands. And if I was going to make that happen, I had to make sure I did my part for the Order. I had to live to see the future go on, and I had to put that future in the hands of just the right woman. Someone who was just as dedicated to the future of humanity." 

Hux's mouth goes dry. She snatches a champagne flute from Ren's hand and downs it in a single gulp. 

"I came here because the Order and Supreme Leader Snoke have honored me with this." Rog touches the medal around his chest. "But I also came here to do the best and most important thing I'll ever do--to carry on the future of humanity. Not just to die, but to live. To give the galaxy the children it deserves." A stray beam of light glints off his teeth when he smiles. 

"And I want to do it with the woman I've always seen as the embodiment of the what Order stands for. She inspires me. She always has. And I've done it all for her." Rog stretches his hand out, and Hux takes a few steps backwards as though she could escape the focus of his attention. "Boudika Hux, will you marry me?" 

The entire lounge erupts into cheering and whistling. Hux's eyes dart around frantically--she can't melt into the crowd, not now. Not with this much attention on her. 

"What are you waiting for?" Landa calls over the din. "Say yes, General!" 

Clarity snaps back to Hux like a rubber band. Rog is a war hero and he's devoted to her. The room is full of sentimental old men who are willing to dig deep into their pockets to fund the First Order if Hux puts on the right song and dance for them. Rog is in front of her, bent down on one knee like some swain in an Old Republic opera, and Hux can still feel Kylo Ren's breath on the back of her neck. 

"Rog," she says. "Oh, Rog. Of course I will." 

* 

The congratulations do not end, and all blur into one. Hux hangs on Rog's arm, her face numb from smiling after only a few minutes. Landa bustles up to them with even more sickly sweet tipple, his smile blinding and sincere. "I didn't know he was going to do that!" he tells Hux, clapping her on the back. "I really, truly did not." 

Hux doesn't even raise her glass. "Oh, didn't you?" 

"Don't be modest, Landa." Rog nods at him. "I nearly got cold feet. He talked me into doing it after all." 

"I merely suggested that if he was serious about this whole marriage scheme, he ought to pop the question before it was too late." 

"Too late for what?" Hux asks. 

"Before some other guy swept you off your feet, of course." Rog puts his arm around Hux. 

Despite herself, Hux relaxes against Rog's body. It's hard not to. "Please. Do you really think I'm the type to be 'swept off my feet' by anyone?" 

"I was kind of hoping you'd make an exception for me." Rog kisses her on the cheek. 

"You can do all the sweeping you'd like after Starkiller is safely finished and operational." 

"That long, Boudi?" 

"It's less than a year." 

"I don't know if I can wait that long." Rog kisses her again, pressing his mouth to her neck. 

"You'll have to. Starkiller can't be delayed. Our wedding can." The word feels strange in Hux's mouth. "Our wedding," she says again, trying to get used to the phrase. 

"Er, General?" 

Hux vaguely recognizes the officer who's trying to get her attention as one of Mitaka's junior officers. She doesn't think she cares to be congratulated by someone so subordinate. "It can wait." 

"It can't--I'm so sorry--" The officer squeaks. "It's a KR situation, General. Room TVC-15." She must be new, Hux thinks. And spending too much time around the stormtroopers. 

"Oh, for--" Hux pulls away from Rog and smoothes back her hair. A few strands of her copper coif seem to have gotten loose, and they're frizzing to life in the close, humid quarters. "I'll just be a moment, Rog." _Two. Three. The rest of the party._

"Cadet." Anson detains her with the lightest touch of his metal hand as she's about to leave the lounge. "You aren't really going to leave your fee-ancy all on his lonesome in this crowd of old buzzards to go deal with some foofaraw, are you? That's what you've got lieutentants for." 

"Duty first, Admiral," Hux says briefly, trying to step around him. "If Rog could hold off a swarm of Resistance fighters, he can certainly suffer another round of whiskey and claps on the back." 

Anson's pointed eyebrows draw together. "Must be a big one, then. Need backup?" 

"Thank you, no." 

"I'm serious, Cadet. This old war boar's got some life in him. I won't have you running off to face mortal danger by yourself--come to think of it, if your man was any kind of man, he'd be right at your back." 

Hux takes a deep breath. She knows it will sting when she says it, and she curls her hands into fists behind her back. "I am no longer your cadet, and right now I've put myself on duty. If I wanted backup, I'd get my own men. This matter needs to be dealt with by me, alone." 

She expects Anson to chide her, even to detain her if he was bold enough. It's something she remembers from the sodden academy on Arkanis, the nights when she'd do her level best to slip out of the human womens' dorm, run through the rain and let Rog reward her with an offer to take her wet clothes, to dry her off with his body heat. Half the time, Anson would stop her at the door with a metal hand and an outstretched arm; half the time, he'd cough and look the other way. She pinches her hand to steel herself for the sting of his disapproval. 

"Well." Anson puts his metal hand behind his back, formally, and gives her a two-fingered salute. "General, as you were." He turns on his heel and swings stiffly back into the lounge. 

Hux breathes out and starts to walk, very quickly. Of course the idiot would be in the observation deck. She cannot have this on her ship. It's one thing to rub shoulders uncomfortably with an unpredictable masked man with extremely odd psychic powers--whatever "the Force" might be--but it's another thing to have him thinking he's got some kind of say in her personal life. That's a path to disaster. 

She reaches TVC-15 and slams her hat onto her head. The door slides open to the sound of buzzing Dopplering from top to bottom. A few small explosions form and fade in her ears. 

The durasteel bench is twisted, torn from its position, hovering in mid-air. Kylo Ren is taking vicious strikes at it with his lightsaber, his pale skin glowing in the spitting red light. Several slices out of it already glow red. 

At least it's not something important, like an instrument console. Hux can probably mount this as a piece of neo-Imperial art, something about the brutalism of form. She'll put a damn sofa in here. Nearly nobody but her comes here, anyway. Kylo Ren's anger problems aren't her issue; it's when they interfere with the functioning of her ship that she has any reason to care. 

After a few minutes, Ren's shoulders slump and his lightsaber lowers. Hux can see him panting, his chest heaving. There are beads of sweat on his chest. It's ridiculous and utterly dramatic, and she might as well leave him here alone until he tires himself out or throws himself out into space. Then perhaps she'll seal off this useless compartment forever.


	5. Lightsabers and Illicit Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, here or on the TFA kinkmeme! You guys keep me going :) I know updates are coming slow--I'm working on a bigger creative project, a TV show called "UnVeiled," so obviously that's a first priority. I appreciate everyone who keeps reading, so much! I'm on tumblr at kleenexwoman.tumblr.com, come say hi!

Hux leans against the doorway and gives a long, slow clap. "Are your renovations finished, Ren?" 

Ren whirls around, his borrowed cape flaring, his lightsaber hissing in his hand. The ruined bench drops to the floor with an alarming clatter. "Go back to your party, _General_." 

"I thought it would be more interesting down here." Hux can't help her gaze being drawn to the sparking red weapon. On an impulse, she holds out her hand. "I'd like to have a go, if you're done." 

Ren's face goes as blank as his mask. "With my lightsaber?" 

"It looks...relaxing." 

"This is a lightsaber, Madame General, not a stress relief exercise. It's ancient, mystical--" Ren shuts up suddenly, tilting his head to the side. Hux has the unpleasant feeling that she's being appraised for something. Then Ren steps forward, powering down the lightsaber and holding it out to her with a flourish. "Very well. If you can handle the weapon, of course." 

Hux closes her hand around the handle of the lightsaber, her fingers pressing against Ren's. She's a little relieved that they're both wearing gloves, although her slender hands are still dwarfed by Ren's. "It's a sword made out of light--the blade should be weightless. I can't imagine anything easier to use." 

"You'll see. Don't turn it on until I tell you to." Ren lets go of the weapon. The metal is warm in Hux's hand, lighter than she thought it would be. Ren moves behind her, and she can see the cape flapping out of her peripheral vision. "It's not made of light. It's a loop of plasma, powered by a khyber crystal. It works the same way as your precious Starkiller does, but as a grounded circuit instead of a one-way journey." 

Hux thumbs the button on the handle, but doesn't press it. "Fascinating. Starkiller disrupts its power sources' matrix of dark matter and dark energy that hold the plasma in place, and then the plasma's off-gassed as a by-product of the phantom energy conversion. But of course, there's no sun in your saber. What is its power source?" 

"It's not for the uninitiated to know. But you must be able to hold the blade steady with your mind. With the Force. Those who don't have the strength of will to do it cannot control this weapon for long." Ren's hands slide down Hux's arms, his body pressed against her back. "Turn it on. I'll ground you." 

Hux presses the button, arms stiff, holding the saber out from her body. The beam of red light climbs out of the metal casing, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her arms are crackling with static electricity, and there's a kind of cold fire running down her arms. 

Ren slides his glove over hers, steadying her grip. "Do you feel how it jumps in your hand? That's not just an idiot weapon. It's guided by the Force. Many may hold it, but few can truly wield it." 

Hux turns the weapon over in her hand, flexing her wrist. "It tingles. The power source isn't very well shielded." 

Ren's breath is hot on her ear, her neck, his voice low and soft. "You'd be ashes by now. Let me guide your hands." 

Hux lets him. The pressure of his arms around her is nothing compared to the cold thrill that sizzles through her body when the plasma blade slices through the twisted wreck of the ruined furniture. There's virtually no resistance when the blade hits metal, but she can feel it twisting in unexpected ways as it moves through the air. 

"Do you like it?" 

Hux feels as though she could slice through the hull of the Finalizer, slice through space and time itself somehow. Like she could deliver a killing to blow anything in her path, even a sun. "It's incredible. Do you feel like this whenever you hold it?" 

Ren doesn't respond at first, but slides off his glove. Hux is equally transfixed by the impossibly bright light of the blade and Ren's fingers. They're not stubs or mutations; they're just pale, broad fingers, with slightly ragged fingernails and a few scars. He draws the sleeve of Hux's uniform shirt up, exposing her wrist. 

Electricity hits Hux with the touch of his fingers, it sparks invisibly off her skin to die out before the bright spot of heat ever touches the floor. Hux is sure she's hallucinating. Fire races through her limbs, a pinprick of searing currents anchoring her to the charged metallic floor of the gigantic ship. She stands in the center of a column--no, a complex web--of light. 

That's when Ren whirls her around and presses his lips to hers, a sudden rush of light connecting their mouths. Hux can feel her own nervous system hooked into his body like a Gnithian tick, and something warm begins to seep into her veins, her nerves. She's thrumming with energy, crackling with it. It's not hot like lightning, it's hot like fire-- 

Ren is facing the door, and Hux can see it frame a thin string of light in slow motion. She knows that Rog is behind it. Anson must have gone back and talked to him. 

"Lord Ren!" She pushes Ren away, holding the crackling saber between them like a fencing foil. It's steady and calm in her hand, but the warmth in her veins ebbs, leaving her chilled. "I am engaged, sir. Control yourself." 

Rog is framed in light in the doorway, holding a blaster with his good hand. His eyes dart from Hux to Ren, and back again, centering on the lightsaber. "Stand down, Ren." 

"I _am_ the one with the sword, Rog," Hux says. She tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear, the point of the lightsaber still aimed at Ren. 

"Surely you wouldn't shoot an unarmed man," Ren says. He raises his hands, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. 

"Stand down, Zoller," Hux says, because Rog still grips the blaster, his hand trembling. 

"I'm sorry, General," Rog says to her. "But I'm not going to stand down when my fiancee is in danger." 

"Does your fiance know what I can do to him if he tries to shoot me?" Ren asks casually. "I'm just curious." 

"You're escalating hostilities, Zoller. Leave." 

" _I'm_ escalating hostilities?" 

"The happy couple's first fight. Charming." 

There's a thunderstorm building in Hux's chest, her arms itching to swing and shatter whatever stands in their way. The lightsaber jumps in her hand. She gives in, wrenching the plasma blade through the air. It connects with the twisted ruins of the bench in a shower of sparks. Hux strikes again and again, carving slices out of the metal, until there's nothing left but slivers of glowing red slag. 

Ren's pale raw hands wrench the lightsaber from her grip. Her hands shake and flex convulsively, her skin prickles. Someone wraps their arms around her and pulls her back. She recognizes Rog's body against her before she recognizes her own. 

"Don't touch my fiancee, Ren." Rog's voice is stern and deep and his arms are strong and warm, and Hux's body is melting into his. For a moment, the bliss of being so utterly protected is the only feeling in the world. But Ren still has the saber in his hand, a crackling and potent spear of light. Hux reaches out for it, wanting the tingling feeling of power in her limbs back. She squirms against Rog's grip, reaching out to Ren, to the weapon. She's seen him move things with his mind. If she could just get that power back, feel that energy coursing through her skin again-- 

Abruptly, Ren powers off the lightsaber. He turns on his heel and strides out of the observation room, Phasma's cape drifting behind him. 

"Boudi." Rog's fingers are warm and gentle under her chin, turning her face to meet his. Anxious blue eyes search hers. "Did he hurt you?" 

"I _was_ the one with the sword, Rog." 

Rog doesn't reply. He holds her. Hux lets him. 

* 

Rog escorts her to her quarters. Hux feels like she's walking in zero-g, disconnected from the ground. The floor. There's never been anything but a thin layer of durasteel between her and empty space. Why shouldn't she feel like she's floating? 

Her fiance is like a planet, generating his own gravitational force, an anchor in nothingness. She tilts her head slightly and she can smell him. There's something to him that smells like bread survival rations, and something like the petrichoric rain on Arkanis. It must be sweat, she thinks, and wrinkles up her nose. Everyone on Arkanis was crammed into dormitories, into mud and grass that seemed to go on forever, the dim promise of trees a smear of dark green on the horizon. Soap and water were mandatory. If deodorant sprays and shots ran out, everyone suffered in a haze of sweat, like canned lunch meat gone rancid. Being on the Finalizer was a revelation--a human being's skin needed so little to sustain its own ecosystem. The smell of human filled the corridors without the taint of alien fungus or microbes, rich and diverse and then almost subconscious. Hux had stopped thinking about it until Rog rocketed in, smelling like a planet. Like ground beneath her feet. 

Hux waves away the stormtroopers on guard outside of her quarters. They aren't large, but she has a few rooms to herself, more than anyone except for Phasma and Kylo Ren themselves. She could have moved in a romantic partner, theoretically. But there's something more enticing about having two whole rooms and a separate bathroom to herself, all things considered. 

Rog ushers her into her quarters. Hux sees the anteroom for the first time with new eyes--the sagging leather couch she sleeps on if she needs to be up late and up early. The brushed durasteel desk. Unfinished, First Order chic--when all you have is salvage, make salvage fashionable. The crude stone sculpture of a downed Imperial Star Destroyer, collected from a cargo cult of scavengers who had lived on the fat of its larder. They'd been bought off easily for a constant drizzle of the cheapest nonperishable rations the Order could find, Hux remembers. She's a little proud of how tastefully minimalist it is, and wonders if Rog will like it. A man in the field must be used to harsh quarters, might prefer something more plush, comfortable, inviting-- 

Hux pushes the thought away. She enjoys the starkness of her quarters, the sharp aesthetic choices. The only time she wants to wrap herself in something fluffy and soft is when she's taken a Perkium. During the occasional cycles when the close quarters and buzzing fluorescent lights make her grind her teeth and press her sharp nails into her palms, she dips into the stash of her mother's doctor presented her with as a graduation present. They don't make her sleep for twelve hours like they did when she was a cadet, but they make the edges of the world soft and kind for a while. 

"You must think the place is decadent," she says, "sleeping in a barracks full of other pilots. Or do you have your own room now?" 

"I was never fond of sleeping alone. You know that, Boudi." Rog smiles and rubs his thumb over her cheek. "It's bigger than any room I've ever had. You could practically raise a family in here." 

"On a warship? They'd be underfoot all the time." 

"True," Rog says thoughtfully. "A warship is no place for a child." 

"Naturally. Isn't that why most peoples' parents sent them to Arkanis?" 

Rog's face falls. "You wouldn't want to send our children away, would you?" 

"For an Imperial education? It's not even a question." Hux glances into her bedroom. There's a familiar spark of anxiety in her gut. Maybe it's the rumpled sheets, the hairbrush tangled with copper frizz. The disarray, the personal touches. But won't Rog see this side of her, once they're married? What does one do with a man in one's quarters, anyway? "Would you like a drink?" 

"I think I've had enough for one day. Got to stay sharp." 

"I only have caf and Vitajuice anyway." Hux turns away from Rog. Her hands are still shaking, and she hides them behind her back. She'll need to take a sedative to sleep tonight. Ren's ridiculous dramatics keyed her up so badly she can't imagine being able to sleep without help tonight. The First Order standard issue sedative is an instantaneous hormone gel drop, placed on the tongue to sublimnate into the sinuses. It doesn't soothe her nerves like Perkium does. Tonight might be a Perkium night. Or... 

"Let me stay with you tonight," Rog says. 

Hux's breath hitches. "I have a personal guard, Rog. You don't need to worry about me." 

"And I notice they're not here." Rog's hands are on her shoulders, his lips on her neck. Despite herself, Hux relaxes into his touch. Maybe she won't need any pills tonight after all.


	6. Weapons Specs, Strategy, and Vintage Threads

Hux wakes up at 0600 hours to the familiar sensation of her pillow vibrating, and to an unfamiliar dip in the mattress. She succumbs to gravity, pressing her cheek against Rog's smooth, firm back and snaking her hand over his hip. It's tempting to lie in bed with him. She's forgotten what it's like to luxuriate in pure warmth, in the freedom of a hot bath or a sauna; Starkiller is a planet of snows, and heating the Finalizer is an exercise in balancing heat costs and thermodynamic entropy. Rog always seemed like the sun, warmth emanating out of nowhere. 

She's out of the sonic shower and fixing her hair, and Rog is still lying in bed. The white sheet is rumpled, twisted between his legs. Hux tilts the mirror and focuses on her braids. She's going to have to look absolutely perfect today, nothing out of place. Eye makeup, even. Her groomer droid flourishes tweezers, a safety razor, several brushes at the same time, and finally a tube of greasy, bug-tasting lipstick that Hux declines. 

She opens up the small wall safe that lies behind the 'fresher mirror and fishes out a delicate pink blown-glass bottle. It's pretty and complicated and subtle, and Hux can pass it off as a gift from her mother, which it was. Mathilde Hux-Winzor had never understood her daughter's tastes, goals, or ideas, but she'd taught her everything about survival she knew. Just Hux's luck that her mother's survival tactics involved protectionary camoflague rather than total annhilation of the attacking species. Hux crunches a pearl-pink Perkium tablet between her teeth, then pops a whole tablet into her mouth and swallows the chalky substances with a swig of water. 

"Come on back to bed, Boudi." 

"I have to lead the tour of Starkiller, and we depart at 0800." Hux doesn't look at Rog, focusing on her wardobe. The worst thing about using an actual planet for a base is the unpredictable shifts in climate, which means that Hux needs to layer. Someday she'll build another Starkiller from scratch, and she'll create her own ecosystem on the surface. Sixty-five degrees, no rain. And no sun to orbit. 

"It's not even 0630." 

"Rog, I need to eat an actual breakfast and not just an energy bar, clear the perfect landing site before we even leave, and be there before everyone else so I can--" 

"Eat two energy bars, let Mitaka clear the landing site, and let 'em wait." Rog wraps the sheet around his hips and saunters over to kiss her on the cheek. His stubble rasps against her skin. "You always took on too much. You're the General, Boudi. They'll wait for you." The edges of the world turn soft and warm, and Hux isn't sure if it's the Perkium starting to kick in or just Rog. 

Hux manages to get them dressed and out the door by 0730, which is just enough time to see Kylo Ren in full robe and mask coming down the main corridor. When Hux sees him, he stops cold. 

Rog slips his arm around Hux's waist. Hux lets him. Let Ren see that she's happy to be with Rog. Let the whole world see! Rog is perfect, and they make a perfect couple. It's all great. She pointedly ignores the phantom fingers on her shoulders, on the back of her neck. 

* 

Hux keeps her chin up through the whole tour. It doesn't matter that there's only a handful of people who bothered to come. It doesn't matter that there's nothing she can do about it. She needs these old men and their credits and spaceships more than they need her right now, but that's going to change very, very soon. Hux smiles widely and gestures to various pieces of machinery. She usually knows her way around the sprawling base quite well, but today she can't seem to dredge up the names of quite a few things. It's the Perkium, and it doesn't matter. Nobody on the tour cares except for Mitaka, who is taking copious notes. This is an ad for the Starkiller project, confirmation that the trillions of credits and work-hours dedicated to an improbable planet-sized destruction beam are bearing fruit. And Hux is sure they love it. 

"Unlike the Death Star, we won't have to move Starkiller to orbit around any planet before we fire on it. All we need is a strategically placed star." 

Landa raises his hand. Hux recognizes his guileless expression from the "Interviewterrogation!" program at 2200 hours. She winces internally. "Ah," Landa says happily, "but Miss Hux? What happens if we don't happen to have a handy nearby star? I mean..." He waves his arm at a nearby window. "I only see the one, just now." 

Hux's blinding smile is real. "What an astute question, Han," she says, and Landa's face immediately goes stony cold. "You see, Starkiller isn't just a much bigger laser than the Death Star ever was. It's not a laser at all--it's a beam of pure dark energy, which generates phantom energy without the dark matter of the sun to lock it into an energy matrix. Phantom energy vibrates at a high enough rate to rip holes in hyperspace at certain intervals during the discharge process. With our precise aiming algorithms--" 

"I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying. You'll have to make it a little simpler for us, my dear." Landa bares his teeth. 

"It means we can deliver a beam of pure destruction to any coordinates anywhere in the galaxy--or outside of it--from anywhere we can park Starkiller. And the khyber crystal goes two ways." Hux dares to wink at him. She feels she's winning. "While we power up, we can also steal another star system's sun just to show the galaxy that we can!" She smiles pleasantly. 

Thankfully, the next question comes from Anson. "General," he says in a clipped voice. "I know your proposal mentioned 'strategically chosen planets,' but I don't think it was ever specified which stars were to be selected. Or how." 

"Strategically, Admiral--as you taught me. The first target is the Hosnian system." 

"The seat of the New Republic Senate. Of course." Anson nods approvingly. "And then?" 

"Unless there's a more urgent need for a demonstration of force elsewhere, my current plan is to eliminate Coruscant." 

There's a dead silence. Landa looks at Rog, and Hux doesn't bother to think about why. She glances at Ren and wishes he hadn't worn his mask. Who does he have to scare here? He's prince of the space pirates, or something equally outlandish. 

"Why Coruscant?" It's Rog, with his sad face. 

Hux hopes the whole tablet of Perkium kicks in soon. "We're striking at the Core. Coruscant is the heart of the Core worlds, is it not?" 

"And the home world of the entire human race." That's Landa, frowning. 

"I've never been," Hux says. "I'm sure it's lovely, but--" 

"You misunderstand me. The symbolic value would be great, sure, I get it. And it would be cultural suicide. What do we have to fight for, if not reclaiming our birthright as a species in the Core?" 

Hux can feel herself tearing up a little. The Perkium always does that at odd moments. The cluster of Core worlds, bright and shining with art and ridiculous old artifacts. Of course Landa would love it. "I understand that many of us are attached to Coruscant for sentimental reasons. My father took my mother on honeymoon there." Hux laughs. Should that garner a laugh? She'd rather laugh than cry. "Humanity can live without the Core Worlds, sir, and we do very well for ourselves out on the Rim." 

Landa's attention slips to Rog again. "The Coruscant honeymoon is a fine tradition for a Rim couple, you know." 

"So I've heard," Hux says. "But we shouldn't argue strategy here, do you think? Supreme Leader Snoke seemed very pleased with my choice, last time I spoke with him." She holds her head a little higher. She's earned it. 

* 

The tour ends at a stand of spiky green plants. Trees, Hux vaguely knows, although they look nothing like the fronded and creeping trees on Arkanis. Biology was never her strong field. 

"A word alone, General?" Anson gestures to a cluster trees outside of the landing pad. The other Imperial officers seem in no hurry to board, lighting up the odd cigarra (forbidden on the Finalizer), so Hux nods and follows him. She'll let the old fool make his point, and then perhaps that will be it. 

"I had family on Alderaan when it blew up," Anson says. 

Hux blinks. "I'm sorry, sir." 

"It wasn't the first time a planet died. Supernovas happen. Asteroids do, too. But it was the first time anyone had used a weapon to blow up an entire planet, and the galaxy remembers." 

Hux winces. "The First Order doesn't commemorate that particular observance, sir." 

"No, but I do. So do a lot of folks who used to be in the Empire. Listen, nobody was happy that Alderaan was destroyed. But we had to sacrifice something important to achieve order, and Alderaan had to be that sacrifice." 

"So does Coruscant." 

"The galaxy remembers Alderaan. Once they see what we've got in our pockets and what we're willing to do, it'll be over." 

"It was hardly the end of the Rebellion last time. In fact, it was the end of an Empire." 

Anson looks haggard in the waning light of the Starkiller's sun. "Listen to me, General. Nobody wants a war. I promise you, the New Republic remembers. And they will capitulate." 

"They may," Hux says. "But Leia Organa won't." 

She doesn't speak to Anson again until Rog's entourage boards their shuttle again, wishing him a safe journey. 

 

*****BONUS DELETED SCENE*****

 

When the door to Phasma's quarters opened of its own accord and revealed a masked Kylo Ren, her first thought was, _Well, it's been a good life_. In armor, she might have stood a chance against the man. In her syncloth exercise bra and shorts, her only real hope in battle would be that he'd slip and fall on his own saber. 

"Captain Phasma." Lord Ren cradled a bundle of something black to his chest. "I require your assistance." 

"You do?" Phasma blinked. "Is that...the helmet?" She couldn't help reaching out towards it. 

"It is not Lord Vader's helmet." Ren swept past her and dumped the bundle on her cot. "General Hux has demanded formal wear for the awards ceremony. Which of these garments do you think might suit me?" 

Phasma squared her shoulders and began to sort through the clothes. If Lord Ren needed her help, by stars, he'd get it. Captain Vigdis Phasma did not shrink from any challenge. "Don't the Knights of Ren have formal robes or something?" 

"We only have our combat robes. They remind others of our true role as warriors. Not as ornaments." Ren actually fidgeted, his shoulders slumping. "But this is not sufficient for the General." 

Phasma made sure her face was safely turned away from Ren before she let herself raise her eyebrows. Since when did Ren care about the General's orders? "So you want something...flattering?" 

Ren loomed over her shoulder and picked up a gaudy, ridiculous jacket. "I thought this would be sufficiently formal, but I'm not sure it goes with the Crosh-hide leather pants." 

"These?" Phasma held up a pair of ridiculously skinny pants. 

"They stretch." 

"I see." Phasma bit her lip, staring at the pile. "Try them on together." 

When Ren stepped out of the 'fresher, Phasma nearly slapped herself to keep a straight face. "Sir, I believe the jacket should be buttoned up all the way. For regulations." Who knew the man had chest hair under all those robes? 

"Of course." Ren complied, then strode into the 'fresher to look at himself in the mirror. His mask turned this way and that, considering himself from all angles. "I think it suits me." 

Phasma's personal opinion was that Ren looked like the bassist of a Dusk band and that there was not much point in hiding one's face if Ren was not going to wear foundation garments under extremely tight Crosh-hide pants, but any fool could see that Ren didnt' want to hear that. "I'm sure it will meet with General Hux's approval." 

"I do not care about her opinion," Ren snapped. "I would rather not hear her harangue me over such a small matter. That is all." 

"Naturally." Phasma sifted through the rest of Ren's civilian wear. "Apparel can be an asset in certain situations, of course. My cape, for example--" 

"A cape. I will require one, of course." 

Phasma stayed absolutely silent. 

"Phasma. I will require your cape." 

Phasma swore, very loudly, in her head. 

"This is not a request, Phasma." 

"It is my personal property, Lord Ren. And it is vintage. I spent much time and many credits tracking down an authentic Imperial commandant's cape." 

"I appreciate your efforts, Captain. You will give the cape to me." Ren stretched his arm towards her, hand curling into a warning fist. 

Phasma crossed her arms. "Tell me why you want it." 

"I have already informed you of the reason. I am attempting to comply with General Hux's request for--" 

"Do not deceive me, Lord Ren." Phasma took a deep breath. "It is my sworn duty to assist you in any endeavor you command. But in order to fulfill my duty to the utmost of my ability, I need clear and complete information." 

Ren's shoulders slumped. Phasma waited. After a few moments, he muttered, "The cape will not be required." 

"I see." Phasma went to her wardrobe and took down the cape. She smoothed a hand over it. The material was impressive, made by an Alderaanian weaving clan that--obviously--did not exist anymore. It was smooth as leather, light and maneuverable but so tightly woven that it was practically waterproof and nearly fireproof. The cape had saved her life more times than she could be bothered to count. 

She held it up to Ren's body. "It should fit." 

"Do not mock me." Ren turned to the bed and began to gather up his clothes. 

"I will lend it to you--lend--on three conditions." Phasma held up three fingers. "Three very solemn conditions." 

Ren turned back around. "Proceed." 

"First: You give it back to me the moment you put your robes back on. Sooner, if possible." 

"Acceptable. It's only necessary for the ceremony." 

"Second: You will not so much as spill a glass of wine on it." 

"I do not drink wine." 

"Not a stain. Not a tear. Not a burn. Nothing." 

"You have my word." 

"I want your oath." 

"For a cape? A Knight of Ren swears an oath only to his brethren and sistren." 

"The third condition," Phasma said, "is that if General Hux does not react in quite the way you'd like her to, you will not blame me or the cape." She shoved the cape at Ren. "The cape does not fail. It can only be failed." 

Ren took the cape at last. He held it out as gently as Phasma had ever seen him touch anything, letting it billow between them. "I will not fail the cape." 

"Swear it." 

"I swear an oath on my strength, my passion, and the beauty of my inner darkness." Ren draped the cape over his arm and clenched his fist. "I will not fail the cape!" 

"Yes!" Phasma agreed. "Louder!" 

"I will _not_ fail the cape!" Ren roared. 

Phasma pumped her fist in the air. "Let me hear you, Kylo Ren!" 

"The General _will_ like what she sees!" Ren howled. 

"Good! Now get out of my quarters."


	7. Hux Fantasizes About Kylo, It's Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Act 2: Black Hole Sun**   
> 

After Rog's shuttle leaves, Hux calls off the rest of her shift. Unamo nods sympathetically; she'll be thrilled to get command on such a big day. Hux sets her access to Extreme Priority Only (that is, Phasma calling to tell her the ship is about to crash). She puts on the second Dancers at the End of Time album, crunches one more Perkium to get her over the edge, and falls deeply asleep to the sounds of Jherek Carnelian's swirling, echoing guitar. 

Hux wakes up to faint bars of light behind her eyes, warm air on her skin. She's naked, and a few twitches confirm that she can't move her arms or legs. Why can't she feel binders around her limbs? When she looks down, her extremities dissolve away into black mist. 

There's something stroking her belly, soft and velvety against her skin. It's pleasant, invisible, and plusher than anything she's ever touched, anything she could imagine. Hux stares down at herself, trying to catch movement out of the corner of her eye, identify the phantom feeling. She digs her fingernails into the pads of her hands. It's easy enough to flex her fingers, but she feels nothing at all. She lets go of the sparks of fear in her gut and melts into the dream. Experimentally, she wills the phantom touch to move down her abdomen, between her legs. It wavers for a moment. Then she can feel it pushing back, sliding up her body and over her ribcage, tentacles of a bodiless touch cupping her breasts. The dream feels good, but it's disobeying her. Hux backs off, settling into her own body slowly, ready to pin down the tantalizing feeling if it shows signs of dissolving. 

Hands all over her, teasing her apart, and there's something real between her legs. Leather gloves, solid fingers stroking the soft skin of her thighs. Hux _knows_ those gloves, she's seen Kylo Ren tug them off. Of course her subconscious would bring him up. What's in a dream besides something you shouldn't have? That's what they're for. Hux wills his form into being, ragged cloak swirling about his shoulders, dun robes like clouds around his body. Before she can even finish his mask, the clothes fade into the outfit he'd worn at that ridiculous party--the pants she'd tried very hard not to look at, the gaudy shirt that showed just a few stray wisps of black chest hair. Minus Phasma's cape. 

Faces are usually blurs for Hux on the rare occasion one appears in her dreams, but Kylo Ren's face is clear and bright. She even sees the dark spots spattered on his cheeks, something she never would have bothered with in a fantasy. 

"Are you afraid of me?" he whispers. "Afraid of what I could do to you?" Two glove-clad fingers play between her legs, stroking her with an impossibly delicate touch. 

"No," Hux says. "Yes? Keep going." 

"Is that all you have to say to me, General?" The fingers creep downwards, towards the opening of her cunt. So impossibly slow. 

"Do not stop," Hux adds. 

"You're...eager." 

"Please?" Hux tries. "With the gloves. Without. I don't care." 

One glove disappears, and Ren's big, pale hand is like fire on the delicate skin of her thigh. Hux sucks in a breath as the glow of Ren's energy leaches into her skin, as her heart beats fire deeper and deeper through her veins. It's a dream, so she can see it sparking under her skin, winking in and out the way stars do through the corona of a sun. Hux is too fascinated with the brightness under her skin to look at Ren. She flexes her fingers, and they glimmer from within. It's too easy to get engrossed in this enchantment, and she's surprised to feel something slide into her flesh, press against the bright spot deep inside of her. She can sense the warmth within, but it's insulated. A finger clad in leather gloves. She strains at the light and warmth in it, the power, and she feels it respond to her call. 

The sparks flicker out, the warmth is gone. Hux drops back into a stolid awareness of her body. There are no hands on her skin, nothing between her legs. Ren's dark eyes and pale face float in front of her, everything else swathed in a veil of black mist. 

"Succubus!" Ren hisses, and the black mist rolls over his eyes. 

Hux's eyes fly open to a faint glimmer of light. Her legs are tangled in sheets, her body clammy and damp. She gropes on her bedside table for her leather gloves and frantically pulls one on. 

"Repeat track four," she barks to her datapad. The fuzzed-out wail of "An Alien Heat" sinks into her ears. Hux closes her eyes and returns to the fantasy. Body restrained, leather gloves between her thighs. There was something else, but it fades from her mind as she slips her hand between her legs. 

Mild guilt itches at her heart, and she tries to imagine Rog. She can summon up his face, but the fantasy never gels; Rog would never wear gloves while he fingered her. He'd never ask her if she was afraid of his touch. With a sigh, Hux succumbs to the fantasy of Kylo Ren's flashing eyes and floating hair. She's never masturbated with a glove on before, but it's easy enough to find the familiar angle to slip two fingers in, the right spot to press her thumb against her clitoris. A fantasy version of Ren sneers and works two fingers in and out of her cunt. She struggles and wails without words. It's one of Hux's old go-to scenarios when she'd needed to calm down quickly and didn't care if she felt grimy afterwards; being held down, exposed, forced to orgasm. Hux's hips jerk up and she presses her nail against her clit, gritting her teeth. 

"Are you afraid of me? Of what I could do to you?" 

Hux is never sure if she's really afraid in these particular fantasies, but she says it anyway. "I'm so afraid. Please, have mercy." 

"I won't," says her fantasy Ren, and Hux comes neatly with three quick jerks of her hips. Her legs are still a little wobbly when she steps into the 'fresher before her shift starts. 

* 

"General." 

Hux turns left out of her quarters and nearly collides with Kylo Ren. At least he has his mask on. She doesn't think she could bear to look him in the face. "Lord Ren. Excuse me, I must be on the bridge." 

"I am needed there as well." Ren's ragged robes keep pace with her quick strides. 

"Good. I'm glad you're where you're supposed to be." Hux consciously focuses on her datapad, flicking through her morning's mail. Two holos from Rog already? He must have not slept much. They're not marked priority, at any rate; they can't be that important. 

"I see you jettisoned your fiance." 

"I sent Colonel Zoller back to his duties, I didn't throw him out of an airlock." 

"You don't wish to be around him?" Ren's helmet turns to face her. Hux doesn't look up; she can feel the weight of his attention on her. "You don't wish to lie in his arms, night after night?" 

"I don't have time for these games, Ren. Colonel Zoller is assigned to another ship, under another commander. Removing him from his duties for sentimental reasons would be unacceptable. That is all." 

"Nobody would have challenged you." 

"It would have been unacceptable _to me_. Are we finished with this conversation?" 

Ren is silent until they have almost reached the bridge. "Did you want to send him away from you, or from me?" 

"Fine. So we're not finished." Hux slams her datapad down on the nearest console. "A moment in private?" 

* 

Dim bars of light slant across Ren's face; his helmet looks like a set of ethereal eyes, angry and empty. The old interrogation rooms had drains in them, for the blood; Hux likes to think that they've advanced past such barbarity. The right cocktail of drugs and visual stimuli can do more to crack a man's mind than all of the shiny, sharp interrogation droids in the world. 

"You thought I would kill him, didn't you?" Ren sounds smug through the vocoder. 

"My decision had nothing to do with you, your antipathy towards my fiancee, or your ridiculous outbursts--and what is your objection to Colonel Zoller, anyway?" 

"He reeks of the Light." 

It's not remotely the answer she'd expected. "The Force?" 

"What other Light is there? He is suffused with it. It is in his nature." 

"You're saying my fiancee is a Jedi." Hux rolls her eyes. "I am not that gullible." 

A chuffing laugh from Ren. "I would have killed him already if he was. There is Light and Dark in all of us, and some more than others. Zoller is all Light. And you and your Order, you rely on the Dark Side to guide you--do you see why he's of no use to you?" 

"He's a Hero of the Order. I think your point is invalid." 

"He will betray you." 

"If you're quite done accusing a _Hero of the Order_ of _treason_ , I think we're very done here." 

"You doubt me." 

"Very much so. I think you're jealous, and frankly, it's pathetic." Hux's throat tightens up; for a moment, she thinks it's Ren. She's never been on the receiving side of one of Ren's choking tricks. She's seen him do it to prisoners, seen Mitaka's bruises. "I was trying to simply be civil, and you seem to have taken it as some kind of encouragement. There is nothing between us. There never will be." 

"Never say never, General." 

Hux's fingernails bite into her palms. _Games_ , she tells herself, _stupid little head games for dominance._ She doesn't have the time for it, she can't afford it. "What do you think would happen if you killed Rog? What do you _really_ think would happen?" 

"He would be dead," Ren says, like it's obvious. "Probably bisected." 

"And after that," Hux says. Ren is silent, breathing. "Well? Do you think I'd suddenly fall into your arms? Ren, do you think that's the kind of person I _am_?" 

Ren raises his hand. Hux braces herself, sucks in air. But there's no squeeze around her throat, just Ren's hand curling in on itself and something smooth and warm stroking her cheek. 

"Are you afraid of me?" 

_No, no, no, no, no._ Hux feels her body split within itself, like a glitching holo. Her bones stumble backwards, muscles freezing up. She forces her hand up to her face and feels herself smacking Ren's hand away, sees the shower of red-white sparks where they connect; she sees her arm hanging by her side, as stiff with fear as the rest of her, hand shaking with adrenaline and too unsteady to hit anything at all. It's over in a moment, gone like fireworks. 

Hux is alive, but her lungs still feel like they've had the life squeezed out of them; every breath is broken glass. It's the adrenaline, the wash of shock throughout her system. She's never done well with that sort of thing, the aftermath of excitement. Her traitorous legs feel weak, and she puts a hand out to steady herself against the wall. At least Ren looks nonplussed, backing away from her like a cat sprayed with water. "Am I?" she rasps, trying not to let her shallow breaths show. "Read my mind. You can, can't you?" 

Ren shakes his head slowly, hesitant, makes a sound that might be "No" or "Don't." Hux can't tell. There's blood singing in her ears, blood pounding in her veins. 

"I know you can. You can get into people's heads. Tell me, Ren, was I ever really afraid of you?" 

Ren's hand goes to his hip, where Hux knows he keeps his lightsaber. He doesn't draw it, but the threat is there. "What are you?" 

Hux stares at him, breath cooling in her chest. The question doesn't seem to have any real meaning, any context. "What do you think I am?" She wanted to sound scornful, haughty. But it comes out broken somehow. _What am I? What's happening? Why me?_

"Tell Snoke nothing of this," Ren says at last. He stalks out of the interrogation room, ragged cloak swirling behind him. 

Hux counts to twenty-five and then leaves, determined not to dream of Kylo Ren that night. She does not dream of anything.


	8. Hux Has A Fight With Both Of Them

"I wrote you a song." Rog hauls his seven-string hallisket from the side of his bed and shows it to Hux. The hologram flickers and jumps. 

"Rog, how sweet!" Hux props her chin on one hand and scrolls through her datapad with the other. Nothing but requisition requests, access requests, and uneventful fact-finding missions. Things were quiet on the borders of First Order territory lately. Snoke's new plan involved lying low and lulling the New Republic into a false sense of security until Starkiller was finished. A sound strategy, but terribly dull. 

Rog strums the instrument. Hux has never been able to work out whether his hallisket is perpetually out of tune, or whether it's just supposed to sound that way. "I took a trip on a Gemini spaceship, and I thought about yoooou..." 

Hux yawns and sets to work clearing the backlog of requests. Approve, approve, approve. Most of them went to the quartermaster or to security, but anything above a certain clearance level automatically got sent to the highest-ranking official on board. Tedious work, but there was no way to get out of it. 

"Boudi, are you listening?" 

"It's wonderful music, Rog. Keep going." 

Rog sighs and sets his hallisket aside. "You're busy. I shouldn't bother you." 

"It's just a few forms, and they've got to be approved before I go to bed. The war doesn't stop just because I'm asleep." 

"And I just wanted a few minutes with you. But I guess that's too much to ask." 

"Stop being passive-aggressive. It doesn't suit you." Hux stabs at her datapad. _Approve, approve, approve._

"I'm serious. I wait all day just to talk to you for a few minutes. Seeing your face before I put my head down...it makes all the speeches and the strategy and the the bullshit that much easier to bear." 

Hux sets her datapad aside. "Rog, that's sweet." 

Rog leans forward. "Do you feel the same way? Or am I just another thing to cross off your to-do list?" 

Hux closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The image of Rog in his undershirt, arms bare and tan, lingers in her mind. She had always assumed he'd be somebody else's husband, perhaps married to some little blonde woman fresh off an agriworld. "I never expected to see you again, and I'm not used to being someone's fiancee. It might take me a little while to get used to you being back in my life." 

"We don't have that much time. I want to make every second count." 

"We'll have plenty of time after Starkiller is finished." 

"We're going to be at war. Not a cold war, not a stalemate, not an uneasy truce--a real war. There won't be time for anything." 

"The New Republic will acquiesce almost immediately once they see Starkiller's power. We'll win the war before it even begins." 

"Boudi, I know you're looking forward to an easy victory. I just don't think we can count on it." 

Hux stiffens. "Excuse me. Which one of us is the general?" 

"I'm not trying to talk strategy with you. I'm trying to talk about our _lives_. We can't just put things on hold for a victory that might take years." 

"And I can't put my project on hold for someone I've been engaged to for less than a month. I have responsibilities." 

Rog rubs his hands together nervously. When he speaks, his voice is thick and hesitant. "Was I ever part of your plans, General?" 

The formality stings. "I've been making battle plans, Rog. Not life plans. Just give me a little time to figure out what I want, please." 

"Sure. I'll stop bothering you, if that's what you really want. Give me a call when you've figured it out." Rog's image winks out, ending the transmission. 

* 

Hux knows she's not going to sleep that night. The observation deck beckons, but gazing at the almost-completed orb of Starkiller doesn't soothe her. It's almost mocking. _You can build a planet-sized weapon, but you don't know how to treat your future husband._ Rog has arranged his entire schedule so he can spend ten minutes talking to her at the end of the day. Shouldn't someone in love be willing to move mountains? She tries to recall the feeling of Rog's arms around her, the soft way her mind drifted in his embrace. She's sure she loved him once, but she can't seem to remember how it felt. 

Rog is a Hero of the Order, and Landa seems determined to make him the most popular man in the galaxy. She's the general who built the weapon that won the war before it began. They'll make a perfect couple. She'll conquer worlds while Rog wins hearts. Now there's a plan. 

She takes out her datapad and types a quick text message to Rog. 

_I want to rule the galaxy with you._

Surely the offer of a galaxy at one's feet is enough of a love gesture to pacify anyone. Who could ask for a gift more precious or more sincere? 

No answer is forthcoming. Rog must have gone to bed. Hux sighs and sits on the floor, leaning against the twisted remains of the metal bench. It's been weeks, and she can't bring herself to order a replacement. Kylo Ren has gone back to being sullen and uncommunicative, disappearing on secret missions for Snoke without any notification. It's a relief that he's decided not to follow up on his apparent infatuation with her, but it's not like Ren. Or perhaps it is. Nobody would suspect that the precise, ruthless General Hux can't sleep because she had a tiff with her fiance. Perhaps Ren is the same. It's not as though anyone knows what he's really like when he's not hiding behind his mask; it's not as though Hux knows any better, just because she's seen his face. For all she knows, he's got a lover on every star system, and losing out on Hux barely put a dent in his day. 

Her musing strikes a stray thought, something buried down at the bottom of her to-do list. She taps out a message to Ren. _Requesting consultation with Force expert re: vocabulary._

A message pings back almost immediately. _I am occupied with crucial matters. Do not disturb me._

Hux's fingers hover above the keypad. At last she types, _Was that an automated response, or are matters not that crucial?_

Minutes pass. She's about to give up and go back to bed when she hears the door slide open, and then the sound of familiar footsteps. 

"I don't wish to be disturbed when I am meditating, General." 

"Then you may feel free to ignore me." Hux rests her hands on her drawn-up knees. 

Ren's shadow falls over her vision. "What kind of _vocabulary_ question is urgent enough to draw me away from my duties as a Knight of Ren?" 

"Are you familiar with the term 'succubus'?" Hux looks up at Ren, trying to gauge his reaction from the small movements of his body, the pattern of his breathing. 

Ren is very still. "Where did you hear that word?" 

"Does it matter? Do you know it, or not?" 

"It is not for the uninitiated to know." 

"Mmm. If you're not sure, you can say so." Hux turns her attention back to the stars. 

"It's a kind of distortion in the Force. The term has no relevance to you." 

"What kind of distortion?" 

"You should not inquire into these matters. They do not concern you, and they are dangerous." 

"I appreciate your concern, Ren, but not your obstruction. If you can't tell me, I'll find someone else who will." She hauls herself up from the floor and brushes off her trousers. "Perhaps Snoke might be able to enlighten me?" 

Ren steps in front of her, blocking the doorway. "For your own safety, I suggest you forget the word entirely." 

Hux puts her hands on her hips. "I do not need to be protected, Ren. What I _do_ need to know is what you were doing in my dream." 

It's a bluff, a last desperate hope that her drug-spangled dream had been nothing but a disturbing reverie. Ren flinches back, and the last drops of denial drain out of her. Cold certainly clutches her heart. "It was a mistake, and one that will not be repeated. Go back to your plans for domination and destruction. Go back to the man you love." 

He turns on his heel and stalks away, ragged cape billowing out like a storm cloud.


	9. Hux Worries A Lot

Rog doesn't call her back. Not that morning, not that evening. Hux makes a point of being in her quarters each evening, tense with anticipation that each next breath will bring the familiar sound of an incoming call from the holophone. She shuffles through forms or searches through 2-D databases for the elusive word, mind half on her search and half on Rog's continuing silence. 

After a few days, it becomes clear to her that it's a stratagem; he wants her to be the one to call first, to prove her love. The thought infuriates her. Rog should know better than to think she'd ever deliberately lose a fight to anyone. She resolves not to make the first move. If she capitulates, he'll only see it as proof that she craves his presence as much as he seems to need hers. 

Ren leaves on longer and longer solo missions. When he's on board the _Finalizer_ , it's usually to interrogate a prisoner for a few hours before spacing back off to whatever remote asteroid he's been chasing ghosts on. He delivers his debriefings distantly and formally, as though distracted. Hux barely gets a chance to be in the same room with him, let alone in enough solitude to ask him about the Force. It's probably better that way; she certainly doesn't need him in her dreams, and she doesn't need to pay any attention to his bizarre ramblings about the Force. 

She throws herself into the minutiae of Starkiller's construction. Her new strategy involves sending teams of Stormtroopers out to "patrol" the Outer Rim trade routes and "confiscate" cargo from vessels bound towards the New Republic. 

"As the Core grows dim, the Rim rises. Exporting our resources to Core worlds will leave us with nothing, and giving them our money leaves us in poverty. It is crucial that we limit trade to the New Republic, and it is vital that we not let our precious resources slip through out fingers. These smugglers are stealing from every human who calls the Rim their home, and only our vigilance can stop them." Her speech plays over the holoscreens all over the _Finalizer_ , three times per shift for a week. 

A shuttle of Stormtroopers spins out of control and crashes on Starkiller's surface. Hux watches a holo of the crash dispassionately, adding up the damage to her weapon in her head. Even Phasma shudders as they review the footage, tiny Stormtroopers spilling out of the crashed shuttle in a tangle of blaze and bodies. 

"A waste of good soldiers," Phasma says. 

"A tragedy." Hux imagines Rog's body, broken and charred in a nest of twisted metal and guttering flames. She turns on her heel and strides into the hallway. "We're done here." 

Phasma follows her hurriedly. "General, there wasn't another vessel detected within parsecs at the time of the crash." 

"Good. That means nobody else knows where we are." 

"We need to launch an investigation--" 

"Why? Soldiers die all the time. Have the mechanics check the other shuttles for structural integrity in case it was a defect. We have more important things to attend to." 

She takes lunch in her quarters and thinks about calling Rog. If she's honest with herself, she thinks about calling him every time she glances in the direction of her holo. She's resisted up until now, spurred on by the cold nausea of her pride. By now it's become a habit not to call. 

Surely she would have gotten notification if Rog was dead. A holo from Landa or Anson, a list of those lost in combat forwarded discreetly to her datapad. But it was the New Order's policy not to do if the deceased was on a classified mission of any kind. Rog wouldn't have been sent on something that dangerous, would he? Surely Landa was keeping his golden boy busy with milk runs, appearances at rallies, inspirational public events and the like. 

Swallowed pride feels like a red hot coal sitting right in the middle of her sternum. She texts Rog, her breath coming short and fast as she types. _What about you? What do you want?_ She sends it whisking away into space, and then she steadfastly refuses to think about it at all. 

*

"Your lover is safe," Ren snarls, stalking past Hux. His mask is dangling from his hand, his hair in disarray, and open scrapes and cuts adorn his pale face. His lower lip is split open, blood running down his chin. 

Hux could grab him by the collar and force their mouths together, blood smearing across her lips and her chin, painting her face with life. She would press her tongue against Ren's raw flesh, then bite his lip and worry it between her teeth. Ren would gasp in pain, but he'd open his mouth to her. She would eat him alive. 

_Disloyal jade_ , Ren sneers. 

Hux thinks of sharpened steel in her voice, the point piercing Ren's soft throat. "Excuse me, Lord Ren?" 

"I said that your lover was safe." Ren's voice is flat and contemptuous. "Your man hasn't left the flight decks of the _Deceiver_ if he's not on Landa's yacht. Are you happy?" 

"You saw him?" 

"I was on board the _Deceiver_. He happened to be in my...vicinity." Ren's hand curls for a moment, then hangs by his side. "He only thinks of you." 

"He told you, I assume." 

"I didn't have to ask." Ren taps his forehead. "No mind is closed to me. Remember that, General." 

"Then you know why he hasn't contacted me." 

Ren shakes his head. 

_"Why hasn't your father called me? I know he talks to you about me. What does he say behind my back?" In the mirror, a woman slides pins into her shining crown of brown and silver braids. Her face is familiar, lined and sad. "I know you know. I know you listen in on his conversations, just like you listen in on mine." Hux's mother sits at her boudoir, painting her lips on by hand. Her red hair barely reaches the nape of her neck, history shorn at the root._

Breaking out of the reverie is slow, and it clings to her like swamp slime. There's something about the other woman's face. Hux struggles to match the name, the knowledge. "Your _mother_..." 

"That wasn't her!" Ren's bark echoes through the hall. "That _wasn't_ my mother." 

Hux folds her trembling hands behind her back, willing her heart to slow down its frantic beat. She forces the image of the braided woman out of her head, replacing it with a field of impersonal stars. "I did not recognize her." 

"Good. By the way..." Ren leans forward, mouth close to her ear. Hux can feel his body heat leaching through her skin, little tentacles digging into her flesh. "Your fiance does _not_ want to be Emperor." 


End file.
